


You know I'm gonna find a time to catch your hand (and make you stay)

by tryalittlejoytomorrow



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Season 2, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 17:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3945877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryalittlejoytomorrow/pseuds/tryalittlejoytomorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I read on the internet that pancakes are a good way to say thank you for letting a poor, homeless, unemployed guy crash at your place." </p>
<p>Oliver spends the summer at Felicity's, pretending that nothing changed. </p>
<p>Hint: he's wrong. </p>
<p>(Post-2x23, Unthinkable.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You know I'm gonna find a time to catch your hand (and make you stay)

**Author's Note:**

> Double-posting this post-s2 fic I wrote a year ago. Hope you enjoy, despite still reeling from the s3 finale!
> 
> Title from Safetysuit's Find A Way.

_It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do._

_He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t allow his eyes to wander to her because she’s on her knees at Slade’s mercy, holding back tears that he can feel prickling at his own eyes, too, and if he looks at her now, all hell will break loose. If he meets her eyes, those beautiful eyes that had widened in shock at his declaration, he will lose it._

_How could he do that to her? How could he use her like this? How could he put her life at risk in the midst of the most dangerous battle he’s ever fought?_

_“You never learn,” Slade says, as he lifts Felicity’s ponytail with the tip of the blade. “You let Ivo kill Shado. You let him capture you. And tonight, you’ve let your beloved Miss Smoak out of your sight.” He looks down at her for a second, an almost tender look in his gaze as he grazes her cheek with his sword. “How many people need to die before he learns?” he whispers._

_“You don’t have to do this, Slade,” Oliver says, his voice rough and his mouth dry. Gone is the confident man who said he was done playing games; Oliver even wonders how his legs can still hold his weight._

_“Yes, I do!” Slade yells as he turns to fully face him, his sword now against Felicity’s throat. “You sealed her fate the moment you met her, kid.”_

_That’s when Oliver breaks the promise he made to himself. He looks at her, and for the briefest second, their gazes lock; there’s fear in her eyes, but also forgiveness, and Oliver knows in that instant that it’ll haunt him forever._

_It happens all too fast, and yet Oliver sees it in slow motion. His brain refuses to work; he tries to reach for an arrow but his arms stay limp at his sides, and his eyes are trained on her no matter how much he wishes he could have closed them a second ago._

_“Oliver,” she chokes out desperately, blood gushing from both her mouth and the hole in her chest. “Oliver,” Felicity repeats as her body falls to the ground in a quiet thump._

_Oliver falls to his knees, the fabric of his suit drenched in her blood in mere seconds, his hands just as equally red as he grabs her face with shaking hands. “Felicity,” he whispers, her name just a quiet, agonizing utterance falling from his chapped lips._

_Her eyes start to flutter close but not before he can spot the fear, the sheer horror of realization as it dawns on her that this is the end. He tries to school his features, for her, but fails miserably. She’s terrified, but he’s the one dying inside; he’s the one who feels the life leave her, her pulse weakening under his fingers, the ghostly pallor of her skin a scary contrast to the scarlet pool growing around her. He’s completely, utterly helpless, and she knows it just as much as he does._

_It’s the struggle of her life – however short time she has left – but Felicity manages to lift her hand, just enough to brush her fingers to his face. “Oliver…”_

“Oliver!”

He startles in a cold sweat, his heart pounding out of his chest; eyes wide but hollow, not seeing her despite her attempt at rousing him awake from the nightmare plaguing him. His body reacts on instinct: one hand at her throat and the other at her hip, violently pushing her away from him. He’s hovering over her, pinning her to the mattress with his strength and his body, when he finally comes out of it and recognizes her.

“Oh God, Felicity,” Oliver croaks, his voice still husky from sleep and his throat raw. “I – I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I thought, you, you were…” he rambles as he pushes away from her, settling on his knees beside her on the bed before reaching out to her.

“It’s okay,” Felicity says softly, her fingers brushing his at her neck where he soothes the hurt with his thumb, tracing gentle patterns on her skin. “I’m okay, Oliver,” she insists when she sees the anger and self-loathing flaring in his eyes. “ _Oliver_.”

His name on her lips seems to ground him, or maybe it’s the softest tone of her voice, her caring gaze, or the way she tries to comfort him after he nearly choked her to death. Oliver closes his eyes and counts to ten, slowly breathing in and out, his shoulders shaking with every exhale – and with the vivid images that blur his mind, gruesome visions of Felicity drowning in her own blood.

He feels her touch on him, and when Oliver opens his eyes again, Felicity is kneeling too, facing him, her hands running up and down his arms. “It’s okay,” she says again, for both their sakes. “It was just a nightmare.” He gulps hard, but nods, and she gives him a tentative smile. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks gently, like a mother soothing a child after a bad dream.

Oliver shakes his head. “No, not really,” he says quietly, not daring to meet her eyes. He focuses them on the red skin at her neck, the shadow of his fingers still lingering. “Felicity…”

She sighs softly, her breath warm against his face. “I think we need golden chocolate pecan and hot cocoa,” Felicity states with a smile, her fingers closing around his wrist. “Remind me to go to the store tomorrow, because we’re almost out of peppermint since _someone_ seems to dig it even more than I do. Not that it’s a problem,” she immediately adds, “but usually it’s just me and you eat a lot more, which is normal considering you’re all big and muscular and –“

“Felicity,” Oliver interrupts her, her adorable babbling the best proof that she’s alive and well, still breathing, still disarming him with her smile, still shining her light his way. “It’s three in the morning. Maybe we should try to get some sleep.”

She laughs. “It’s not like we need to get up early, since we’re both currently unemployed.”

“Actually, _you_ might still have a job,” Oliver chuckles, playing along. “I mean, we never had a contract, so technically you’re still working in the IT department. You just had the courtesy to bring me coffee on your free time.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. “Remind me to get back at you with a sassy comment tomorrow, Mr. Queen,” she grins, before covering a yawn with her hand.

Oliver takes it as his cue to call it a night – for the second time. He’s getting under the sheets and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, before he realizes what he’s doing. If she’s surprised or confused, Felicity doesn’t let it show; instead, she lets him anchor her to him, resting her head on his chest, the quiet thump of his heart under her palm slowly lulling her to sleep.

He listens to her breathing for another hour, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her body under his hand at her back, before he allows himself to close his eyes and surrender to sleep.

Sleep is elusive, as usual. But her hair tickling his chin and the feel of her warm body pressed against his make the dark hours a lot less lonely.

(In ways that only _she_ can.)

 

* * *

 

“You know, I could get used to this, so you better not do it again or I won’t let you leave,” she says as she leans against the doorframe, arms lazily crossed over her chest.

Oliver turns around to look at her, and he’s a sight to see: pan in one hand, blue apron with white polka dots on, and flour on his cheek just like one of these cheesy romcoms Felicity loves more than she dares admit. “I read on the internet that pancakes are a good way to say _thank you for letting a poor, homeless, unemployed guy crash at your place_.”

“I suppose that’s also where you learned how to make pancakes,” Felicity teases him as she makes her way to the kitchen and leans her elbows on the counter, watching him. “I didn’t think we still had anything left to eat.”

“We didn’t,” Oliver replies, tasting the word on his tongue. _We_. It sounds like domestic bliss, something pleasant and easy, everything that their lives haven’t been in a long time. It sounds like two people living in a nice townhouse, two people who have forgotten for a little while that people leave and die, that another threat will rise after they took down the last one. Two people who have been playing house, smiling and laughing and living as if three little words didn’t change it all. But it sounds _nice_ , so Oliver pushes those thoughts aside. “I woke up early and went to the store. Figured it was the least I could do,” he shrugs, before dropping a pancake in a plate that he pushes in front of her.

“Do you still have some of these herbs from the island, just in case?” Felicity asks as she probes the pancake with a fork, her lips twitching up as Oliver narrows his eyes at her. “Just kidding. That looks delicious, thank you.”

Oliver shrugs, a smile gracing his lips despite his best effort to look broody – she has that effect on him, ever since day one. He watches her as she takes a first tentative bite, the little frown between her brows soon fading as she lets out the softest moan. “That good, uh?” he asks, leaning into her personal space, cocky as never before.

“You know, you were funnier when you were rich,” Felicity replies easily. “I don’t know, I guess you just can’t afford the smoldering charm when you’re poor, it just doesn’t work the same.”

“You think I’m charming,” Oliver says more than he asks, grinning. He feels lucky that Diggle isn’t here because he would probably make a comment about the stupid grin that he just can’t seem to shake off of his lips whenever he’s around their favorite fake blonde. It almost hurts to smile that much, but Oliver has learned by now that it’s just impossible for him not to when Felicity is concerned. The adorable pink tint that colors her cheeks is no exception, apparently, as Oliver feels his smile grow wider.

“I think I need to shut up and let my brain wake up properly before talking,” she says before stuffing another piece of pancake in her mouth. “The lack of sleep is not good on me. My brain just thinks of the worst things.”

She says it lightly, but Oliver can’t help but feel the pang of guilt stabbing him inside. She can’t sleep properly because he keeps her awake at night with his tossing and fussing, and when he doesn’t wake her up because of a nightmare, the tension radiating off his body is enough to fill the room with unease that keeps her from getting any sleep. “Sorry about that,” he says, his back to her as he focuses on the next pancake. “I can sleep on the couch, you know.”

“And here we go again with your nonsense,” Felicity replies, slightly annoyed. “We’re both grown-ups, right? We can share the same bed without you offering to sleep on the floor for the sake of my virtue.”

Oliver quirks an eyebrow, before slowly turning to face her. “I never said anything about sleeping on the floor. I’m Oliver Queen, after all,” he tries to tease.

She doesn’t buy it. She’s Felicity Smoak, after all; she knows him in ways that _he_ doesn’t. Felicity tilts her head, and lets out a small sigh. “Oliver…”

He looks over her shoulder, staring off in the distance, the one thing that angers her enough to want to grab him by the chin and force him to look at her. “You shouldn’t have to sacrifice so much, _for me_ ,” he says, almost in a whisper.

Her eyes widen before returning to normal, concerned and caring, her default setting with him. “You think you’re the only one who needs someone to comfort you?” she asks softly as she slides off the bar stool at the counter to walk to him. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve felt helpless, listening in to you fighting on the other side of the comms, and knowing there was utterly _nothing_ I could do if things went wrong?”

Oliver frowns, and forces himself to meet her gaze. More often than not, he wonders how someone so small can be so intimidating; the determination in her eyes challenges his, and with Felicity every conversation turns into a battle of wills that she wins more and more lately. “It’s not –“

“Don’t tell me it’s not the same,” she interrupts him, jabbing his chest with her finger. “It’s _exactly_ the same. We’re _partners_ , remember? Or was it just some smooth talk?” she asks him.

“It doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch you get hurt because of me,” Oliver insists stubbornly.

“It’s not easy for me either!” Felicity says, frustrated, as she lifts a hand to her hair and pulls at some stray curls. “But we’re partners. I’m not a damsel in distress, and you’re not a knight in shining armor. Sometimes things happen, _bad things_ , but I knew what I was getting into when I signed up with you.”

“ _Did you_?” Oliver asks, never breaking eye contact as he takes another step towards her. “Did you know you were going to risk your life every day? That people would hurt _you_ to get to _me_? That you’d lose everything you worked so hard for?” He pauses, swallowing hard the lump in his throat. In the aftermath, the calm after the storm, he’d been unable to block these thoughts away. How he’d made her his Executive Assistant without asking or listening to her legitimate complaints, tarnishing her reputation in the process among the rest of the employees at Queen Consolidated; how she’d lost her job the moment he’d lost the company, how she’d traded the safety of her quiet life to become a target for every sociopath in Starling City and beyond.

Felicity lifts a hand to his arm, gently cupping his bicep. “Is it _really_ what’s bothering you? The little sacrifices I’ve made, when _you_ have sacrificed so much _more_?” she asks, incredulous. “Come on, Oliver…”

“He had you and he was going to kill you!” Oliver blurts out through gritted teeth, his jaw set with tension. “That’s not a _little_ sacrifice. He had you. He could have killed you at any moment. He could have killed you…”

He bows his head, touching his forehead to hers, and Felicity lifts a hand to twine her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He releases a breath as she kneads her fingers against his tense muscles, and she soothes him for a moment, giving herself some time to carefully pick her next words. “Is it what you see, in your nightmares?” she asks softly, and when she feels him nod, she goes on, “Because that’s what _I_ see, too. Except it’s you who gets hurt. Or John. Sara. I see everything that could have gone wrong, and I’ve seen you die a thousand times. But you know what?” At this, she pushes slightly away from him, just enough to meet his eyes. “Eventually I always wake up and see you next to me and I know that it was just a bad dream. So, yeah, sleeping with you has its benefits – oh, God, three, two –“

His arms wrap around her before she can say _one_ , one around her shoulders, the other at her waist, pressing her gently but firmly against him. Felicity squeaks a little, and stands on her tiptoes to wrap her own around him, feeling ridiculously small without her high heels. Her hair is a mess, her vision blurry without her glasses forgotten on her nightstand, and goosebumps are forming on her bare arms because _dammit_ , Oliver Queen is hugging her, and what is it with him these days, staring at her all the time, giving her that stupid look or that stupid smile, touching her a lot more than usual and, well, _living with her_?

“Don’t ever stop being _you_ , okay?” he whispers in her ear, his breath and scruff tickling her acutely sensitive skin. “Promise me,” he adds, echoing words of a not-so-distant past.

She _giggles_. “Well, I don’t quite know how to be someone else, or I would have dialed down the excessive babbling a long time ago.”

“Don’t,” he says, and she feels him smile against her cheek. “It’s part of your charm.”

Felicity pulls back, her hands resting on his shoulders, and cocks an eyebrow at him. “You think I’m charming,” she says, amused and cocky and giddy, feeling a little bit like that one time when Diggle gave her _aspirin_. Which is ridiculous, really, because why would she feel high on Oliver Queen’s physical proximity and flattery?

She sobers up as he speaks, his tone just as serious as his gaze on her. “Felicity, you’re amazing,” Oliver says simply. It’s very simple, and very true. Felicity’s smart and kind and brave and loyal, but if he had to pick only one word, _amazing_ is pretty much the best way to sum her up.

She gives him a smile, bright and a little watery as she turns to look away and take a deep breath. It’s a little bit too much – okay, it’s _entirely_ too much – all these smiles and looks and heavy declarations of how great he thinks she is, and how he loves her but _not really_ , not like she loves him, at least not in the way she’s allowed herself to in that brief second when he said _it_. Her head is a mess, her heart is in the balance, and Felicity is just seventeen kinds of confused and torn because here Oliver is, standing clad in pajamas in her house, right in her personal space, worming his way further into her life and she loves it, of course she does, but he said he loved her and no matter how many times she repeats to herself that it was just a ruse to get to Slade, something just seems off. Maybe it’s something about the quiet tone of his voice when he said it; or how he hadn’t said a thing as she babbled on the island, neither denying nor confirming. He said it, _I love you_ , and she just can’t unhear it.

“Felicity,” she hears him say, and that’s also _something_ , the way he says her name. There’s just something about it; no one has ever said her name like that, like it’s a name and a title and a prayer all at once. And there’s the way he says her name even when they’re alone and there’s just no one else he could talk to, but still, he says it, and damn, that combined with the squeeze of his hand on her shoulder and here she is, picturing things in her head that are definitely _not_ platonic. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yes. No. Define _okay_. Okay in general or right now?” she rambles aloud, which is definitely _not_ what she had planned but it’s the kind of things that happen around Oliver Queen. Her brain and her mouth can’t seem to work together, and she says things that are both ridiculous and stupid and then it’s the moment when he’s supposed to give her a cute smile, squeeze her shoulder and leave, so why is he still _here_?

Oliver smiles at her, that seductive smile that Felicity is sure he simply _cannot_ tune down. It’s part of the smoldering package, the gleam in his eyes, that perfect smile, those ridiculously hot hands that she’s imagined on different places than her shoulder more than one time – thoughts that she definitely should not be having when her brain has been short-circuited, intoxicated by all things Oliver Queen. “You’re rambling. _A lot_. And it’s only eight. That gotta be some kind of record,” he says, fondly. “Is everything okay?”

She takes a step, and then another, putting some distance between them, and yet still knowing it’s just impossible because this is her house, not the Queen Mansion, and she surely can’t go lock herself up in the bathroom or her bedroom forever. There’s nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide, and Felicity can’t even blame him because _she’s_ the one who offered (more like, _told_ him that there was _no way_ he was going to spend a dollar in a hotel room or crash at Diggle’s now that Baby Michaels Diggle and its mother were there) that he stay with her.

There’s a part of her that had offered because she thought he would say no. Oliver had surprised her, when he hadn’t put up that much of a fight; maybe it was the exhaustion, the physical and emotional toll of the past few months ( _years_ ) weakening his resolve and taking down his walls, but after the car sent by A.R.G.U.S. to pick them up stopped in front of her house, it had taken only a couple minutes for her to convince him to stay the night – the real story being Felicity dozing off on his shoulder, Oliver carrying her to her house, tucking her in bed, and then trying to leave but failing as she held onto his hand and tugged at him, pulling her in bed next to her. The following morning, he had woken up in a tangle of arms and legs and blonde curls, realizing he’d slept through the night for the first time in forever. When she’d put her hands on her hips, told him with her loud voice that he was going to stay and that he didn’t have a choice, he’d just cracked a smile.

And here he _still_ was, weeks later, sharing her bed, having breakfast, lunch and dinner with her, lazing on the couch and watching _Supernanny_ – because, let’s be real, Baby Michaels Diggle is Felicity’s new project and _of course_ they’re going to look after the baby so John and Lyla can have some time alone. And not once in these weeks have they mentioned the elephant in the room, the big fat _I love you_ that was completely unnecessary but that’s been haunting her ever since.

“Now you’re scaring me,” Oliver says, making her snap back into focus. “One moment you’re rambling, and the next you’re staring blankly in the distance. What’s going on?” he asks, confusion clear in his eyes. “Talk to me, Felicity.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Felicity replies quickly, too quickly – Oliver doesn’t buy it and they both know it. “I guess I’m just still adjusting to this whole thing,” she goes on, vaguely gesturing at the space between them.

“This _whole thing_?” Oliver asks, frowning.

“This whole thing!” Felicity repeats, frustrated by now. “You and me. You living here. Your toothbrush in my bathroom, your bow and quiver under my bed that’s basically _our_ bed now, because come on, how am I supposed not to think about _that_? How can you expect me not to think of all these non platonic things that have been going on in my head for the past two years when you look at me with your stupid eyes and with that stupid smile, and you keep brushing by me, touching my arm, using me as your teddy bear at night, and damn it, Oliver, you just can’t tell a girl you love her and expect her not to go crazy about it when she realizes that it was just a ruse. You just don’t do that. You don’t. Because I was fine being your friend and your partner, and you had to go and say it and now I can’t forget it and whenever I look at you I remember your face that night and that wasn’t the face of a man who was lying, so if it’s the truth, why are you acting like nothing happened?”

Felicity pauses abruptly, out of breath, her face flushed as the weight of her outburst sinks onto her. It was doomed to happen; Felicity had just hoped that it wouldn’t happen so soon. Because now that it’s out in the open, she can’t take the words back – just like he hadn’t. It’s there, the truth raw and bare, but somehow she can’t quite bring herself to regret it.

She finally forces herself to look at him, and Oliver stands there, stunned, gaping at her. There’s a million emotions battling in his eyes, confusion and ache and regret and anger and so many more, and Felicity frowns because that’s how _she_ feels. She’s the one who feels betrayed and hurt and heartbroken, so why does Oliver look so tormented?

“This whole thing,” she starts slowly, “it’s a lot to process, okay? But that’s my problem, not yours. So, if you don’t mind, can we just go back to ten minutes ago?” she all but pleads.

He does mind. And she’s totally right; he did mean it, and it’s not fair to play with her and act like nothing happened, just like it’s stupid to think that nothing would change. It’s not fair to drop something this huge on her and then never talk about it again. It’s not fair to tell her he loves her when he knows that nothing could happen between them because of the life that he leads – never mind the fact that it’s the life that _she_ leads, _too_.

It’s just not fair. But that’s the way it has to be for now.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the summer, Felicity thinks that she’s finally done it; buried her feelings so deep inside that she can look at Oliver without her heart breaking. It’s a long process, and there are moments when his hand lingers on her arm or her back and she can feel her walls crumble, but she’s actually quite proud of herself.

Oliver, on the other hand, simply doesn’t know what to do.

With a simple nod of his head, he had agreed to go back to how things used to be, and ignore Felicity’s outburst. After a couple of days being awkward around each other, they’d fallen back into that new routine of theirs, and the rest of the summer had gone smoothly. Beneath the surface, though, Oliver’s never been more conflicted in his life.

He told her he loved her, and he can’t pretend that it didn’t change everything for him, too. Because even though he keeps telling himself that it can’t happen, it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want this; hell, he’s sure that he has never wanted – _needed_ – something as much as he wants her. But he can’t help but remember that everyone he loves, he loses, and Felicity is the one person he could just not bear losing. She looks happy, at ease around him, and he can’t keep hurting her with his uncertainty and doubts.

It’s stupid, really, because uncertain is something he hasn’t been in a long time. He knows that he meant every single word he told her that night; knows that he loved Laurel and Sara and Shado, but Felicity has a hold on him that none of them ever had – he knows that losing her is not an option.

When Walter calls him to offer _them_ a job in his company, Oliver realizes that everybody is aware of his feelings for Felicity – _except Felicity_. She settles at her new office at the IT department, beaming as she religiously skims her fingers over the keyboard, and Oliver just leans against the doorframe, watching her, unable to hide the grin on his lips. The position that Walter offered him doesn’t actually exist, which is great because Oliver is sure that he didn’t have the qualifications anyway, so he spends most of his time in her office talking Arrow business. It feels good.

Moving in his new apartment _doesn’t_. After three months at Felicity’s, Oliver realizes that he doesn’t know how to be alone anymore. He used to need it; the peace, the privacy, but now that he’s tasted what it’s like to share someone’s life, he can’t go back to that. The bed is too big, the apartment too silent; everything reminds him of her. He does his first laundry, and he remembers the cute blush on Felicity’s cheeks that one time when she caught him folding laundry, his shirts and her underwear all mixed together. He goes to the gym in his apartment building, and he sees her in her yoga pants and sports bra, trying to keep up with him during his morning run. It’s both ridiculous and exhausting.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” Diggle tells him once, and when Oliver frowns, Diggle just rolls his eyes. “You love her and she loves you, and yet you’re both miserable.”

“It’s not that easy,” Oliver says half-heartedly, not even fooling himself.

“Bullshit,” Diggle replies, sighing heavily. “You need to stop being so dramatic, Oliver. You can’t spend the rest of your life alone just because you think that everybody you love will end up dead.”

When Diggle calls him a drama queen, Oliver takes it as his cue to leave.

 

* * *

 

“She’s precious,” Felicity coos as she holds the newborn, looking utterly content to just gaze at the baby girl forever. “Feel free to ask me to come over at any hour of the day or night just to look at her.”

“If you could change a few diapers too, that’d be highly appreciated,” Diggle says, exhaustion and joy battling on his features. “She’s not precious when her diaper is full or when she pukes on my third shirt in one day.”

Felicity glares at him. “She’s an angel,” she insists, her gaze softening again as she brushes a finger against the baby’s cheek. “Can I keep her forever?”

“No,” Oliver surprisingly says, stepping in closer and opening his arms. “Her godfather wants to hold her now.”

“I’m her godmother,” Felicity says, “and she wants to stay with me.”

Oliver’s lips twitch in a grin. “Oh, is that so?” he taunts her. “How are we gonna do this, then? You’ll take her one week to teach her how to hack, and I’ll have her the next one for her archery lessons?”

“Oliver!” Felicity squeaks, covering the baby’s ear with her hand. “We’re supposed to show her the example! No criminal activities around her! We’re the cool auntie and uncle who take her to the zoo, buy her ice-cream and all the toys that mean Daddy and Mommy refuse to – no offense, guys, but that’s our role, I don’t write the rules,” she apologizes.

“I didn’t say I’d teach her how to shoot _someone_ ,” Oliver replies nonchalantly, taking a seat next to Felicity on the couch. “I’ll shoot anyone who tries to go anywhere near her first.”

Felicity coos again, and when Oliver tries again to take the baby from her, she lets him. She keeps touching him, making sure that he’s holding her correctly, that the baby’s head is neatly nestled in the crook of his elbow, and Oliver just smiles, gently reminding her that he was already ten when Thea was born, so, yeah, he knows a thing or two.

Lyla says something about not wanting her daughter anywhere around weapons before she’s at least _ten_ (“ _I work at A.R.G.U.S. and you guys think you’re in a comic book or something, who are we fooling?_ ”) and Diggle excuses himself because he can’t stop coughing.

(Oliver definitely hears him say _Totally married_.)

 

* * *

 

She goes on a date.

James is an accountant, and like Oliver did once (and twice and more), he goes all the way to the IT department to discuss a matter with her instead of summoning her to his office. He’s nice, doesn’t look at her like she’s beneath him, or like he wants her underneath him. He explains his problem, she fixes it in ten seconds because hell, she’s Felicity Smoak (for Oliver, it’d take hardly five, but that’s a secret she’ll take to the grave).

The following day, he comes back, coy smile on his face as he asks her if she would like to go have coffee someday, and apologizes for being so blunt and he totally understands if she thinks it’s inappropriate and he keeps babbling and damn, it’s cute, so Felicity says yes.

It’s the moment when Oliver should be jealous and interrupt their date and confess his love – _again_ – because that’s how it happens in these movies that Felicity loves so much and that, somewhere down the road, she’ll make Oliver sit through from beginning to end, credits and songs included. He’s supposed to realize that he’s been an idiot, that keeping his distance doesn’t work, that being too close to her without having her hurts, and that life is too short to waste it.

(Somewhere down the road, when Felicity makes him sit through _When Harry Met Sally_ , and Harry tells Sally that when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible, Oliver takes it as his cue to get down on one knee and propose. _It was long overdue_ , Diggle says in the aftermath.)

But Oliver doesn’t do or say anything. When he goes to her office and she’s not there, Melanie, the girl working next door, tells him that she went out for coffee with the cutie from accounting and he just nods and leaves. He doesn’t plan on telling her he knows, because, really, if Felicity wanted him to know, she would have told him. They’re not that kind of friends. He expects her to talk about it with her girlfriends or Diggle, but the last time a boy took interest in her, he threatened to put an arrow through him, so it kind of puts things in perspective.

In the end, though, Felicity ends up _telling_ him.

He comes to her office at the end of the day to pick her up and go to that nice new French restaurant that she’s been talking about for weeks. The bad guys seem to be on vacation and that doesn’t happen often, and she deserves a nice night for once. She’s at her desk, gathering her things, when he gets there.

“The reservation is at eight, and I made sure to tell them you’d want your Malbec with your lamb,” he says as he steps in, lingering by her desk while she does her Felicity things – he’s learned a long time ago not to interfere. “What do you want to do in the meantime? We still got three hours.”

What she wants becomes as clear as day as her hand wraps around his tie, gently guiding him to her as she tiptoes to twine the other in his hair and bring her lips to his. She’s neither tentative nor hesitant; Felicity knows what she wants – always has, really – and what she wants is standing right there in front of her and it’s _about damn time_ she takes it.

It takes Oliver one second to understand what’s going on, another to ponder on it, and another to realize he doesn’t give a damn about the consequences, except if they lead to Felicity out of that red dress and God, Walter is going to kill him but he’s dreamed of taking her on her desk since the very first time she called him Mr. Queen. She may have started this, but he damn well intends to finish it, and once the initial surprise is gone he takes control; one hand finds her hip as the other clears the desk of whatever was still on it, and with a press of his hips against hers, he has her perched on it as he steps in between her open knees.

Felicity moves her hands to underneath his jacket, running her fingers along his ribs, and she smiles against his mouth as she feels Oliver growl. She bites on his lower lip teasingly once, twice, before she pulls back, and _okay_ , maybe this was a mistake to think that _she_ was the one in charge because the look in his eyes, lust-filled, feral, could make her do just about anything – including letting him do what he clearly wants to do (and maybe she has fantasized about it a couple times, but who’s going to blame her, really, it’s not her fault if that man looks so good in a suit, and out of it). “Not gonna happen, Oliver,” she warns him. “And no need to pout, the smoldering charm doesn’t work on me.”

Oliver laughs. “It doesn’t? Really?” he asks, leaning down to nuzzle the side of her neck, gently digging his teeth in the spot below her ear.

Felicity shivers despite her best efforts – she’s not really making any, but she likes to pretend that she has some self-control and that Oliver Queen is not the exception to her every rule. “I’m not saying this couldn’t have happened at Queen Consolidated, but _here_? No. Nope. This is your step-father’s company. If people are going to think I’m sleeping my way up the social ladder, then you need to be on top.”

“That would be my preference,” Oliver replies in a low, seductive voice that sends another roll of shivers down Felicity’s spine. He makes the most of it to trail a path of kisses down her neck, her shoulder, the strap of her dress down to her cleavage, before she cups his face in her hands and pulls him up. “What?” he asks innocently.

“Not happening”, she repeats, narrowing her eyes at him before taking a deep breath. “Are we really doing this, or is this one of these moments of relapse where I’m just a bad habit you can’t kick?” she asks, her tone serious despite the dread in her eyes.

He thinks of telling her that she’s the one who attacked him with her mouth, but the moment is heavy and she’s vulnerable and the last time she looked this scared was the day she told him she was scared of losing him and he still doesn’t understand why, why she thought she would lose him or why she’s so scared because he’s brought nothing but trouble, but the one thing Oliver knows is that he _never_ wants to see that fear on her, ever. “If by _doing this_ you mean going out for dinner, and then going home, and probably taking a day off tomorrow, then yes, we’re doing this,” Oliver finally tells her. “If by doing this, you mean not running away because I’m an idiot who thinks it’s better to be alone than to risk being with someone and hurting them, then yes, we’re doing this.”

Felicity smiles, and lifts her hand to redo the knot of his tie and smooth the wrinkles on his shirt. “Good,” she says simply. “Because I tried to move on from you and it didn’t work and I’ve spent the entire day trying to come up with a really good speech, convincing you by a + b that this whole thing about pretending that nothing happened and we’re both not miserable about it is stupid, but of course I just kept rambling all alone and then you came in and I stopped thinking and I kissed you and God, you can’t tell Dig because –“

He kisses her.

He kisses her a lot.

(Sometimes to shut her up, but more often not.)

 

* * *

 

He says _I love you_ over crème brûlée, and he can hear her think, _are you talking to me or your dessert_?

He loves her even more for that.

She doesn’t say it back immediately. But when he drives them back to her house, and says that it’s the only place where he really feels like home, she kind of kisses him, unbuttons his shirt on her front porch, says he’s an idiot but _hers_ , and then, she says _it_.

And then she says it some more.

 

* * *

 

_the end_

 

 

 


End file.
